And In Health
by calicoskies4ever
Summary: An AU fic in which House and Wilson live together and are learning how to deal with their new life together. During and post Epic Fall. Usual warnings, AU, OOC, child abuse, swear words I think , HouseWilson slash, etc


"And if you're tempted to tell a lie, don't get it wrong.  
Well it breaks my heart when I see you cry.  
Don't get it wrong. Get it right.  
The brightest light that's shining in the skies  
is shining from your eyes.  
I love you in a way, that no-one else could ever do.  
If you'll only love me, I'll love you," Paul McCartney

When House told me his leg was hurting so badly that he almost got high, he did it for one reason and one reason only. He wanted a prescription, and expected me to give it to him. Of course, I knew he'd be back in trouble by the end of the week if I did. I wanted to help him. I wanted him to know how much I loved him, but I couldn't stand the thought of him suffering. So, I didn't give in to my desperate, deepest, darkest desire. I didn't help the poor, pathetic, cripple, who was in so much pain that he couldn't even sleep anymore, and who's only way to cope was obsessively cooking.

"Lay down," I said, after letting him stare at me in shock for a minute. He rolled his eyes, and opened his mouth to complain. "I took a message therapy class two weeks after your surgery. Oh come on—like you haven't been expecting me to say _that _for ten years. Now, do you want me to help, or do you want to ask for a prescription directly?" Greg limped back to the bedroom, lay down, and didn't fight when I pulled his pants down. He did whine though. From the moment I suggested it, our apartment was full with the sound of his complaints. "What? Are my hands too warm? I know it's kind of strange, but you'll get used to them," I promised. "After you do, feels much better."

"Not weird. Actually, it's nice. You don't even hafta move it," he said, looking up at me with wide-eyed amazement. "I dunno if it's the heat or because you're the one touching me, but—I feel better already." I ripped my hand away as if he were a blazing stove. "What did I do?"

"Whenever you get a new obsession, the pain goes away—until you get bored with it. If I do this, you'll get obsessed with my touches or the heat, or whatever and if you get bored with me," I started to say, but paused because he didn't seem to care that this was upsetting me. "You turn the burners of?" He nodded. "I've got a heating pad, wanna give that a try?"

"If it helps, I'll do anything," he all but begged. House had been different ever since he came home. The man wasn't massively depressed anymore, and he wasn't popping pills every fifteen minutes, but this didn't seem any better. I hadn't seen his real sleep in days, which incidentally was the last time he'd felt up to making love.

When I brought the heating pad back, he was already sitting on the edge of the bed with his pants pulled back up. "I can't _talk _to you the way you want. I can talk to the shrink because I don't care if he likes me or not, and it's more than that. I just—you're the only real connection I've ever made. Not gonna give that up for an hour's worth of talking about how desperately I need a couple Vicodin." I nodded, and hugged him gently. "You hafta go to work now, unless you want to become a part of my next culinary delight." I smiled to make him feel more comfortable, got dressed, and went out to my car, checking on him three separate times. I also called the apartment as soon as I got to work, and spent the whole day worrying about the guy.

XX

"I know you got bored and it stopped helping you cope with the pain again, but are you really never going to cook again," I asked when I got home that night. He had just told me he wanted to come back to the hospital. Greg was on the couch again, eating more ice cream. I was glad to hear it, and he knew as much; so I asked about what I was really interested in. As annoying as it would be to spend 90% of our time together, I was unsatisfied without him around at work. I actually missed working with him.

He shrugged in response to my question. "I guess you won't be thinking about trying out for Hell's kitchen, or Iron Chef, then, huh?" He chuckled and shook his head. "Probably a good idea anyway. Having some scary guy scream at you and tell you how horrible a person you are might jeopardize you sanity, and make you have to go back to the nuthatch. But about the cooking thing, it's just… In my wildest fantasies, I could not imagine being half the chef that you actually are. You're the Michelangelo of—and this is clearly not doing anything for you," I said, stopping. I grabbed a spoon, sat down beside him on the sofa, and dug in.

"Get your own damn ice cream," he moaned, even though we both knew _was_ my own damn ice cream. "Fine, eat it. But touch the remote and I'll scrape your eyeballs out with my spoon." I nodded, and draped my arm over his shoulder, pulling him close to me. "You know how you always say it's gonna be okay, and I always make fun of you for it?" _Kind of hard to forget, _I thought. "Is there any way we could do that without me feeling like I hafta do the last part?" He seemed so sad, and desperate. The guy was making fewer jokes and sarcastic comments lately. I wasn't sure I liked it. I wanted to squeeze him real tight, and whisper, 'yes, of course. I can. I love you, and love can fix any problem!' but I just didn't know. Not enough to make a promise to House over. "Is that a no?"

"That's an "I don't know,"" I told him, honestly, and he responded as I'd expected, with an annoyed sigh. Then, he got quiet and stopped eating the ice cream. "I'm gonna miss cooking with you." He laid his head against my shoulder, looking up at me and pretending to smile.

"I might, occasionally find it not boring enough to help you—or team up with you…be your assistant or something. As long as no one finds out about it, and you laugh at all of my stupid, obnoxious jokes, like meatball jokes." I shoved him, gently.

"I think you assisting me, would be like _you _assisting a med student on a Whipple," I teased, which made him smile, big and real. "There you are," I said, reaching across his back, and dropping one palm onto his thigh, and pulling his body closer with the other.

"What a stupid thing to say. But um—thanks for, um…I think—I like your warm hands, always liked that you're warm. You make me warm, which is good because I get cold easily. It's probably psychosomatic—my dad used to make me sleep in the yard and it was always cold. I just, never got over it. You know?" I knew about him being forced to sleep outside, and I knew he complained about being cold from tie to time (my guess was that House only complained to be annoying or when he thought I'd actually do something) but stupid me, I never put two and two together.

"You talk to your psychiatrist about this stuff?" He stared at the TV, ignoring my question, hoping to avoid more of them. "You don't need to tell me the abuse stories. Ever. Just stop me if I ever do anything that…you know."

"He thinks I should talk to you about everything—eventually. When I'm ready, or some stupid thing like that." I lay my hand on top of his. _You don't have to do that; it's just me._ His voice was enough to tell me that he did not agree. "I need—or at least would really like—to not talk about any of this right now," he told me, burying his face in my shoulder. _Poor guy is exhausted, _I thought. _He hasn't really slept in days. _

"Wanna try and go to bed?" He nodded, and then yawned. "Come on." I helped him stand up, and walked the all but unconscious House to my—our—room, where he climbed into bed, and I helped him slip into his pajamas.

"I think we hafta get a new mattress," he said, between more yawns. "I mean, it's gross; isn't it? You and Amber had sex in this bed! And now we're—I'll pay for it, sell the motorcycle if I have to." I felt my breath hitch. He had a point, but this was one of the few things of her I hadn't given up. "Or we could do it some place else. Maybe if we just buy new sheets and you flip the mattress upside down so we're not sleeping on you guy's old sex stains, I might be okay to sleep and stuff in here." I smiled, and gently kissed his hair.

"That was actually quite sensitive; thank you, Greg." He seemed embarrassed by my comment. "Sorry I said anything. Next time—if there ever even is one, which I highly, highly doubt—I'll pretend you were an even bigger jerk than usual, okay?" He nodded, smiling again. "Can I go to sleep now or do you have more ball jokes? Some of us actually have work in the morning." He sniggered. "I'll come home from lunch—bring you a Ruben, okay?"

"Yeah, I'd like—I mean, that would be fine," he recovered, scooting up really close to me, and pulling my arm around his waist. "I um—I almost, kind of like all this. And I kind of like you." He closed his eyes, clearly not expecting a response.

"I love you too, House. I love you too." He snorted, and elbowed me, twice as rough as I'd done to him earlier. I almost tickled Greg back, but the guy was out like a light 30 seconds later; so I left him asleep.

XXX

"You think there's even the slightest chance of Cuddy actually giving me my job back." He asked the next day at lunch. "I mean, I know you want me there, and you get that it's best for me, but do you think she'll actually—you know, agree to it?" Before Taub quit and Foreman made his first official act as Head of Diagnostic Medicine firing Thirteen, I would have told him his chances were slim, but there was a chance. Now, it was going to be difficult as there technically wasn't a team anymore, but he was definitely better than Eric. I told him as much. "He dismembered the whole team in less than a week. Even I can't do that!"

"People put up with you for longer, because you're better than him, smarter," I tried to explain. "You're brilliant—which apparently makes you really good at anything and everything you try." I was working hard on trying to not sound jealous, but failing. For some reason, I hadn't been handling his success in the cooking arts as well as I would have liked. He was my friend; I should feel good for him, finding something he enjoyed. House sensed this, and scooted his chair across the kitchen floor. Then he grabbed my hand, interweaving our fingers.

"That's just not true. There's lots of stuff I'm not good at," he told me, with a light, but firm hand squeeze. _Like what, _I thought, like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum. "Like ice skating for one."

"You could probably become an Olympic skater in two years if you weren't crippled." Greg gave me his fiercest, most annoyed look, the one he usually reserved for the most obnoxious patients and coworkers. I'd seen it before, but always directed at someone else. He'd never looked at me like that…until now.

"Are you seriously trying to get _me _to pity _you_? 'Cause if that's the case, you might wanna tell me what's really bothering you. Unless me being a better cook than you _is _what is really bothering you. In which case, I just can't feel bad for you, sorry."

"That's just it, House! Cooking is something I've always been good at. It made me special. You've been better than me at almost everything, since the day we met. But I always had the kitchen. It was like my—now, it turns out you're better than me at _that _too." Greg allowed himself to sigh but willed the angry face away. He even managed to appear concerned. "You don't need to pretend. It's fine. Go ahead, make fun of me." I found myself almost instantly wrapped in his arms.

"Ordinarily, I would but you—I make fun of people and their reactions are always classic. You're just pathetic right now. All I'm gonna do is make you cry. And that's no fun; way too easy too" he said, turning my whole body around so we were face to face. "Jimmy," he sighed, fingers scratching his chin. "I spent the summer in a mental hospital, after I had a total breakdown and hallucinated having sex with Cuddy! I then shouted that hallucination to the entire hospital, humiliating—well actually both o us. Even if I do somehow get my job back, everyone's gonna think I'm an even bigger psycho than before. I'm also a drug addict, with no friends except you, no significant relationships except you and two women who broke my heart and both probably hate me now. Back to the job that I'm probably never gonna get, I'll never advance…heck, I'll probably end up working for Foreman. Forever. I'm a helpless, worthless, loser, drug addicted, sexual deviant, who's one bad day away from ending up with a bullet in his head," he ranted, partially angry, and partially exaggerating in an attempt to cheer me up. "What exactly are you jealous of?" I sighed, taking his hands in mine, and swinging his arms back and forth a little. "You don't hafta worry about me. I don't actually think I'm that big of a looser," he interjected. "Just wanted you to see all the places where you 'shine' and I don't." I shrugged, unsure whether or not I believed him. House's eyes bore into my soul. I kissed him on the mouth, softly. "The reason I'm good at video games, and poker, and cooking, and medicine, and whatever else you think I'm better than you at—it's my instincts. I go to the grocery store, or rummage through your fridge, and I just know what's gonna taste good together. You do it too, sort of, but I'm smarter, which means I make connections you can't. If I said out loud, exactly what I was thinking, exactly how I think it, all day long, people would look at me—like they look at me when…they'd think I'm even crazier than I think I am. What knows—maybe the two are connected. Van Gogh was schizophrenic, and—real artistic talent…heck all talent—usually comes with pain, which makes you turn to drugs or booze, which makes your art suck, which causes you more pain, which makes you do more drugs, makes you suck more, makes—point is, you don't want to be anything like I am," he exclaimed, tapping his head. "Now come here," he whispered, holding me again. "You're much, much better than me. You shouldn't be jealous because I can whip up tasty snacks."

"Don't do that. Don't patronize me Greg. I mean, you were doing pretty well up until the end. You might be the most brilliant culinary artist who I have ever met, who's work I ever had the pleasure of tasting. You know that, don't pretend you don't," I insisted, grabbing his arms, and pulling him towards me again, pushing us towards the bedroom.

I gripped onto him tightly, and started to kiss down his neck, pulling his shirt down, to kiss and suck on his collarbone, but he pushed me back just a little. "Look I wanna apologize—I'm good at taking care of people and I was supposed to be taking care of you but I screwed up. I was so caught up in my own crap that I didn't even notice when you fell of the face of the Earth. You were loosing it, and I couldn't even—I'm supposed to be there for you, help you, love you. I'm supposed to be good at this and I couldn't—couldn't even keep you out of one of that_ place_." I have no idea were all of it came from, but suddenly everything inside of me heated up and boiled over the edge, spilling everywhere. I knew better than to lay all of it on him, but I was depressed, upset, scared, envious and I felt like crap for letting him get so bad, letting him get hurt. He squeezed me again. "House, I'm sorry."

"Jimmy, I'm—getting better, and until then, I'm hanging on just fine. You never cried, or thought about yourself, or let yourself feel anything about me getting sick, did you?" I shook my head. "Do it now. You be me, and I'll do my best to play your part, okay?" We lay down on the bed, and I cried and cried, while held me, seeming slightly uncomfortable, but doing pretty well despite that.

Afterwards, he gave me a playful but rough shove, then tickled, and finally straddled me, his hips on my hips, his ass rubbing against my crotch. He smiled, leaning over and kissing me on the mouth, soft and rough, neat and wet, harsh and sweet. "Can I call you a pussy now or would that be in poor taste," he asked, after I had calmed down enough to start making out with him. He actually broke a kiss to call me a name. _Maybe he isn't changing that much_.

"I would prefer if you waited until after we're finished—to borrow a phrase from your vernacular—doing it." He nodded, kissing me all over. Greg slid his hands lower, kissing me, pulling at my clothes and getting my hard cock out of my pants, then sliding down onto it. When we were finished, he lay beside me, and smiled, opening his mouth as if about to say something. "Sorry, Greg. I gotta go back to work. Feel free to email me those insults though, okay?" I was up and dressed before he completely recovered from the comment, but the guy was smiling, like he was proud of me.

XXXX

Later in the afternoon, I did get an extremely long and incredibly detailed email from him, but he only called me a bad name one time in the whole thing. I didn't think to check how long it was before I started to read and assumed that it was just a list of my faults or something. As such, I—mistakenly—opened it, and started to read the thing while Cameron was in my office, complaining or worried about…something. It probably was related to House in one way or another. Everything she did and said always came back to him, eventually.

The email started of with: _Jimmy, I know I called you a pussy before, and I know that I should probably apologize for it, but I've decided that pussy might not be such a bad thing to call somebody after all. I mean, if you really think about it, a pussy is a beautiful thing. So, technically it wasn't an insult, and therefore I have nothing to apologize for. Now, that I have everything cleared up, I've decided to tell you that while I probably won't be assisting you on dinner, I'm all over desert. Please bring home the following items, as we are completely out and my plan will not work without them._

_Whipped cream, it's gotta be the kind from an aerosol can, otherwise I'm just gonna end up making a mess, which would suck, for the following reasons. First you'd get mad, and then not let me have it—desert that is, although I suppose it's possible you might withhold sex from as well, what with you literally being a pussy and all. Not that I mind, you're a very tight, very soft, very nice pussy, but that's a whole other point, and I'll get back to it eventually. Maybe. I guess the not being allowed desert would be reason number two for my making a mess sucking, and 3 is even simpler. I don't like to clean…well, anyway back to the things I need._

_Actually, now that I think about it, that's it. Everything else I need I've already got right here—except for you of course—oh and please call my cell when you're getting out of the car, I wanna meet you at the door. Wink, wink. NOT!_

After that, it got pretty intense, and even included a couple pictures he had taken of himself, showing me how much I was being "missed," according to the labels. By the time I got to the fully body shot—which was seamlessly slipped into an explanation of just how much he missed me, in the form of a story detailing what he wanted us to do when I got back—my face was blood red, and my hair slick with sweat.

"Oh my God! Are you alright," Alison exclaimed, racing to my side before I had a chance to close the email email. She stood dumbfounded, unable to take her eyes off the screen. I was about to apologize when Greg's former employee added, "you should try instant messaging. It'll make—well, it works really well." I nodded, like a jackass.

"Look—uh…I'm sure half the hospital already suspects that he and I are—involved, but there's a big difference between suspicions and actual knowledge. And he doesn't want anyone to know. So, if you could, you know, not say anything…that would be great." I was sweating even more and redder than before.

Cameron nodded—I couldn't help but notice—still staring, and said, "Don't worry. I wasn't planning to say anything. Robert thinks I still like him. It's really the only thing we ever argue about anymore. If I admit I've seen House naked," she giggled, unable to finish. I said I understood although I had barely heard anything that came out of her mouth. "Trust me, that instant messaging thing…it's great." I was worried that she was going elaborate, but Cameron left, all goo-goo eyed, and practically floating. I called Greg afterwards and asked if he was okay, even though I had been checking on him multiple times a day, every day, and he was getting more and more annoyed with me with every phone call.

"If you don't stop asking me that, I'm gonna start to act like I'm having a another breakdown, or make myself act physically stronger but loopy so you think I had a relapse, then I'll pay some guy to piss in the busted up toilet," he mocked, smiling—I could tell even over the phone. "You hafta be home before 7:40. It's important," Greg insisted, sounding a little anxious.

"Are you sure you're alright, House?" I twisted the phone chord in my fingers, very, very concerned by his nervousness. "Because you don't sound okay, and I'm getting to the point where I'll most likely cancel all my afternoon appointments just to race home and check on you." House sighed, loudly.

"Jimmy, check your email if you're so worried about me. I'm not nervous, I'm just planning a surprise and if you get home too late, it won't—won't work as well." I smiled, and pictured him answering the door in nothing but an apron—his version of the "happy chef."

"I saw your email. Um—next time can you at least put some kind of a warning at the beginning of something like that? I almost had what basically amounts to the dirtiest smut I've ever seen with Cameron in the room. She came this close to seeing…well, all of you."

"You do know I can't see your fingers right? What kind of an idiot does _this _over the phone? For all you know I'm jerking off and rubbing cum all over the phone so that the next time you use it, you get jizz in your ear." I smiled and said I was sorry for the finger thing. "Think she'd pick me over Chase—if she did see me?" I laughed a little, unable to stop myself.

"No, she's met you so any chances of a real relationship are shot, but if you catch her in the right mood she'd probably have an affair with you—especially if you act all pathetic and needy." This answer satisfied him. "Look about the surprise, I get it; you're planning to jump my bones as soon as I walk through the door. You asked for whipped cream for crying out loud!" He practically whimpered. "I screwed up big time, didn't I?"

"No, I wanna do it with you. That part should have been obvious from the naked pictures. But I do need the whipped cream for something else. I really am making dessert. You don't have anything except skim milk, which is probably not a good choice for homemade whipped cream." I let out a small chuckle of relief. "And be quiet when you come in. Think I'm gonna take a nap."

"I thought you were going to meet me at the door with a martini and my slippers," I taunted, waiting for a response, but he hung up before I got a chance to finish taunting him, or before he could make a good comeback.

XXXXX

I came home with a can of whipped cream, and a quart of whole and 2% milk, as well as the ingredients to make us pancakes in the morning. I called from the car to tell him that I was coming in, mostly because I didn't think I could open the door quietly, without dropping the bags. He got the door, but didn't help me with the groceries. "So what's going on?" I asked, following him into the kitchen, which was filled with the scents of melted chocolate, and tomato sauce, heavy on the garlic. "Wow, you made dinner and dessert!"

"Shhh," he told me, pulling the oven door open slightly and peeking inside. "It's just spaghetti. Took all of twenty minutes. Can't have you getting all jealous and feminine, and crying again," he mocked.

"You're the one slaving over a hot stove, fussing about, trying to make us a nice, nutritious dinner," I said. I was pretty sure I'd gotten him pretty good. Greg clamped his hand over my mouth.

"I already told you to shut up," he whispered. I pushed my lips forward to kiss his palm. He giggled, lightly, turned the burners down low, put a lid on the saucepot, strained the noodles, mixed them in, and shoved me out of the room.

"What's in the oven," I asked, prying his hand off of my face. He shushed me yet again. "Can I at least put the groceries away," I asked, very quietly. He followed, softly opening and closing the refrigerator for me, making sure I didn't slam it. Then, he checked the dessert again.

"Looks like we've still got about 40 minutes on this thing. Just enough time for us to eat dinner," he said, getting plates out quietly, and even setting the table himself, probably to keep it quiet.

"I know what the surprise is," I said, between mouthfuls. Greg's head dropped slightly. "What's the big deal? I was going to find out eventually. You did surprise and impress me. I'm sure your soufflé will turn out wonderfully." House did that nervous chin rubbing thing. Now it was my turn to move my chair across the floor, which I did, taking _his _hand and squeezing it.

"I know it doesn't taste terrible if it collapse—can still eat the thing. It's just that a soufflé is a huge accomplishment. I want it to work. But if I get too excited or listen when you tell me how great it's going to be," he murmured, shoving a forkful of noodles and sauce into his mouth. "Will totally suck if things don't work out."

"Okay," I confessed, quietly. I had more to say, more I was thinking about but I knew what would happen if I tried to start a long conversation with him. He'd get frustrated—technically anxious—and hide his frustration by starting to yell, which would cause the soufflé to fall, and prove (to him) that he was a worthless failure. "And don't worry; I've never been able to make a soufflé that didn't collapse. I won't judge," he sniggered.

"I did have one question though. Sounds dirty, but I'm serious." I smiled, using my fork to snatch up his last meatball. "How do you now if you've got stiff peaks?" I smiled, kissing his cheek and giving him a tiny tickle. "Was beating off—er, beating the egg whites for what felt like forever, but it never—they still seemed soft, unable to hold up when I tried to make peaks myself."

"Honestly?" He nodded, gazing over his shoulder back into the kitchen. "I have no idea. Did you use that little, yellow egg-separator from the drawer next to the skink?" Another nod and continuing lack of eye-contact. Sometimes it leaks a little bit of the yolk into the bowl, but…I'm not sure I it has anything to do with the peaks not getting hard—stiff. Did it look a little like a big bowl of cotton?" He nodded again. "I'm sorry about this afternoon—the hissy fit. I think," I said, and sighed. I didn't want to lay all of this on him, but I also knew how learning something new made him feel more secure. "When my brothers and I were little…our parents put a lot of pressure on us. You know, high expectations. I still feel like crap when I'm not the best at something. And I know I shouldn't complain, not to you. Our childhoods can't even be compared. Barely anything happened to me." Greg sighed, straining to keep from screaming. Then, he checked his watch, got up, padded into the kitchen and opened the oven. I followed. He pulled the soufflé dish out, purposely hiding it by placing his body in front of me. "So, how'd it turn out?" He pivoted to face me, pouty-lipped. "Oh, Greg," I told him gently.

"I did it," he cheered, still quiet and allowed me to give him a little, congratulatory hug. He even held onto and rubbed up against me a little. "Least, I think I did. You take a look." I did. House had. It wasn't perfect, but the way something like that looks and how it tastes has little to do with each other.

"You did it!" He actually managed to look proud of himself for a moment. I smiled. He smiled. I kissed him. He kissed back. I got a knife out of the drawer to cut the soufflé with. "You wanna do the honor or should I," asked, kissing him on the cheek.

"I dunno. What does she look like?" He tickled me the way I usually did to him, but I was much more sensitive than he had been. I laughed, hard. "And about what happened when you were a kid. I might be more screwed up than you, but it's only by, like, this much." I tussled his hair. I think—and I haven't got all the answers here—abuse is abuse, especially with kids. I think you are downplaying how bad your childhood was because you're afraid I'll think you're comparing and then I might get upset and—have another breakdown or something." _I Holly crap, _I thought. _He's actually getting better. He recognizes my pain and is trying to help me with it! _"Can you smile, or at least say something so I know you're not catatonic?" I nodded, and smiled a little, for him. "If you wanted to talk about it, might help me enough to be able to tell you about some of the stuff that happened to me."

XXXXXX

We ended up not discussing much of anything that night. I wolfed down almost half of the most amazing soufflé I'd ever tasted, and while House had his fair share, he didn't eat nearly as much. "The reason I was a little nervous about the soufflé was because I didn't follow the recipe exactly. Usually that doesn't matter. I mean, tomato sauce is still tomato sauce even if you pour a little cream or Sherry in it everything turns out fine. But this—such a complicated recipe… Anyway, I thought it would be good with some rum—I'm mostly telling you about this in case you mark your booze bottles, and are wondering why there's about a shot of Captain Myers missing. I didn't drink it—but the stuff didn't completely mix in with everything else. I was worried it might congeal in one place, make the top too heavy, make the whole thing go down," he explained when I complimented his dessert. I let out a small chuckle. "The guy with two gallons of Baileys Irish Cream is going to laugh at me?" A second ticked by and I didn't say anything, mostly because I wasn't as embarrassed as he expected. "It was Amber's wasn't it? Sorry."

"No, it's mine—unfortunately for you; I don't think there's anything you can say about it that I didn't already hear from her. Feel free to try though." I said that to him a lot. He knew it meant, I don't want to hear you're obnoxious comments but I won't get mad if you make them. He shrugged, already losing interest. "For future reference, the proper response to a compliment is, "thank you, Jimmy.' Also, I'm not worried about you drinking. If I were, I would have gotten rid of all my booze before you moved in."

"So you don't think I'm a functional alcoholic?" True, he drank too much sometimes, but so did I, so do a lot of people. I shook my head. He looked at me for a while, before sighing, standing up, heading back to the den, and sitting on the sofa. I followed and tried to talk to the guy a few times, mostly to try and convince him that he had nothing to feel bad about.

"But if you want to give up booze too, I won't try and talk you out of it. Couldn't hurt," I explained, but that was when House stopped talking. He even went as far as to ask if I'd mind if he slept on the sofa. "Did I do something wrong? Because you have been sleeping with me lately, and I enjoy that." He stared, unblinking, without saying another word to me. "You know what, it's fine. If this is what you want, no problem." I brought him some pillows and a blanket, helped him set up comfortably, and turned away as he changed—his request—into pajamas. Then, I started to walk back to the bedroom.

"Jimmy," he called out, sounding small and far away. "Do you think you could stay up for a little while? Not really ready to sleep yet but I could use some—you know." I sat down beside him, touching his hair, and watching him stare blankly at the TV screen.

"Can I ask you how you're feeling? If the uh…antidepressants are working or whatever?" He smiled slightly. "If you don't want me to know, I'll totally understand, but you said you weren't tired and they can—one of the side effects is insomnia and you didn't sleep that much this week."

"Jimmy, relax," he exclaimed, still not looking at me. "I didn't sleep because I was in pain, and apparently I was in pain because I was bored and missing my crappy job. No insomnia, no suicidal ideations—unless being so bored I could jam a pencil into my jugular just to get a little entertainment counts—a little dry mouth, actually a lot of dry mouth, couple wired dreams—which I'm not even sure were connected to the meds—and…that's about it." I sat, smiling down at him and softly rubbing Greg's shoulders until he fell asleep. A little while later, I went back to my own room, and climbed into bed where I tossed and turned all night long.

XXXXXXX

I awoke from a light sleep, to the sound off cartoons and House's cane bumping up and down against the floor in the den. It sounded less like he was moving and more like he was bouncing it. I went over and found him sitting on couch and not watching his show, but bouncing like crazy.

"More bad dreams," I asked, fully expecting his "whatever" shrug. Instead, he nodded, and let go of the cane, patting the cushion. I sat next to the guy. "Want me to go first?" He nodded. "I didn't learn how to ride a bike without training wheels until I was almost fourteen. Between being a bit clumsy and the fact that my dad got ridiculously frustrated when I didn't start to get it right away—I," I started to say, but shuddered. "Then, the screaming started and I'd get scared, give up, and go hide in my room. Then, I'd stop trying for a while and… Eventually my parents said that I was getting too old to not be able to ride a bike. Plus they wanted Danny to learn but he was scared. My mom offered to pay me if I tried to learn and didn't give up until he figured out how." House chuckled softly.

"That was completely inappropriate, and I'm sorry. Okay, I'm not, but I know I'm supposed to be and I figured that saying I was would make you feel better. I guess—you think yelling isn't a big deal?" I wasn't sure. He gave me a hug, and held on for a long time. "Took me a long time too. I was 12 and a half though. Pretty much the same reason, only—instead of getting frustrated, he thought he could motivate me by telling me over and over that I was a completely useless retard who would never get it. I even snuck out one night to practice on my own. Fell off, and landed on my left arm. It hurt really bad, but I was so scared I'd get in trouble that I just climbed into bed and pretended like nothing had happened. Only time I went to the hospital as a kid and someone actually questioned our "he fell down the stairs" story….see, now I feel like a jerk because I totally just topped your story." I leaned over and kissed his cheek.

"My parents were hyper-strict, control freak, jackasses who acted like nothing I ever did was good enough. Your dad was almost exactly the same, except he also used to beat the crap out of you and didn't lie, not even when you really needed him to. Every one of your stories is going to sound worse the most terrible thing I could ever think of. I know you aren't intentionally showing me up. And I think telling me will help, a little. The longer you hold things inside for, the more it hurts, the worse you get. Believe me, I know. Last year—well, you saw me." He squirmed. I took my arm away. "You're looking for excuses to not talk to me. If you're not ready," I started to say. He was rolling his eyes. "I meant that. All of it." More eye rolling, but he scooted closer to me.

"I'm sorry you had it rough," he came up with after a few minutes. House lay his head against my shoulder, yawning slightly. _You still haven't slept_! "I never know how to do this. Where do I start? What's important; what isn't?"

"I know," I said, patting his shoulder. "Is it okay for me to be doing this while you're talking about—you know?" Even more eye rolling. I kissed his forehead. Greg barred his teeth. "Sorry, I'll never be gentle or loving with you again. If you want me to, I might be able to start hitting you." He giggled. "I think part of the reason none of my marriages worked out is because I'm still trying to be perfect, trying to have a perfect life." He laughed hysterically.

"You are so full of it," Greg explained, controlling the laughter but smiling. "I know you believe you expect perfection, but—don't you think the infidelity had at least a little something to do with the marriages failing?"

"People can get over infidelity. It's not always a deal breaker." Greg looked like there was more he wanted to say. "But I suppose you know more about relationships than I do, don'tchya?" The laughing started again.

"No, I just pay attention, even when it doesn't seem that way. I never met your first wife, but I'm willing to bet you didn't love her any more than you "loved" the other two. Yet, you think you'd still be married to—any one of them if you hadn't cheated but you wouldn't. Those relationships were doomed from the start. Bonnie and Julie didn't love you. Not the real you. And as lame as it might sound, I was gonna say that they didn't know the real you; no one does—except for me. Now, I'm thinking I shouldn't. Seems even stupider than I first thought." I reached out and touched the side of his face. "Don't be nice. Tell me how stupid I'm being."

"It's totally lame, you're right about that, but it's also sweet, and sort of true. Mostly I was so busy trying to be what everyone else needed me to be that I didn't have time to be myself. Sometime you need me to take care of you, to be strong—ands stuff, but mostly I can just relax, laugh at the stupid, childish jokes that I'm not supposed to think are funny, and sit around drinking beer, watching crap on TV, and acting rude and obnoxious without having to worry whether you think I'm being "nice" or not." He laughed at me again, but seemed to like this explanation, and relaxed a little. "Want some pancakes," I asked, playing with his hair a little. He nodded, and watched me head towards the kitchen, smiling.

When I called him to the table about an hour or so later, he still had that little grin on his face. "Look at you," I said, happily. He stuck his tongue out but didn't look any less ecstatic. We sat side by side, eating our pancakes, telling jokes, stuff. It was just like before, only better because he was sober and healthy and happy. It was the first time since he'd moved in that I really think he might really be okay. "You wanna go out," I asked, taking his hand in mine yet again. "Or we could just hang out here and screw each others brains out, or anything in between." House's tongue darted out and he licked his lips. "I think I know what that means," I said, and started for the bedroom.

"Wilson," he called, from the chair. I turned around. He looked sad, and pained. He did that thing with his eyes. I raced to his side. "Wow you're seriously dedicated. Should totally milk this, or I would if I thought I could get something useful or good from you. Or if I really wanted something, which I pretty much don't," he admitted.

"Wow, that was really big for you," I suggested, gently placing my arm around his shoulder, and sitting back down. He nodded. "You wanna talk?" He shook his head. "Sorry, want is the wrong word. You feel like you have to tell me something?" Greg nodded, with a little more chin rubbing. "Need me to go first? Okay, well, I can't think of anything that isn't stupid so don't feel bad if yours is a million times worse. I loved to draw when I was a little kid, I was terrible at it, and even at the age of seven, I knew it—but drawing made me feel good. Most parents would have waited for me to grow out of it. Would of happened on its own, don't you think?" Another nod. He opened his mouth, paused and closed it again. "I didn't ask for art classes, I colored on old pieces of scrap paper, and anything else I could find, because they yelled at me if I wasted good paper, but…they still," I stammered." House hugged me, tightly. "One day my dad came into my room with a stack of papers in his hands. He'd—they found my secret drawings. I was still seven, mind you. "I thought I told you too cut this crap out," he screamed. Then he told me I was awful, and would never be any good at it and then he…nevermind."

"You were a little kid and your father said you were worthless. I know how much that sucks. Regardless of whether he says you're a worthless draw-er or a worthless excuse for a human being.—doesn't feel any less crappy. Well, that's one thing I can guarantee you're better than me at, believe me or not. Don't care how bad you are, crafts just aren't my thing. I can hear somebody play a piece of music one and pick it up like that!" He snapped his fingers. "But I can't even do stick figures." I wiped my eyes on my shirt sleeve, and tried to smile. "Think it'd work the same—you know, make me feel beter if I tell you about something good?"

"Yeah," I said, giving him a hug back. He touched my face, wiping my tears too. "Promise me you're not gonna turn into Cameron behind my back, okay?"

Greg just smiled, pressed his mouth against mine, made out with me for a minute or two, and said, "Let me know when Cameron can do that." I chuckled, and gave him a playful shove. His smile grew, and the guy pushed me back. "I used to stay at my grandmother's and she took me…everywhere. She knew my dad didn't let me have toys, 'cuz I was a "big boy," or whatever. So she let me sleep in the bedroom with the loose floorboard, and showed me how to hide stuff in there. My very first stash. Sounds kind of stupid, but it was nice, being there, with her. She'd take me out all the time buy me toys, books, and she did a lot of baking. I always got the first cookie, or brownie and she would sneak food up to me when I wasn't given dinner, and…she used to sing to me when I got sick. I dunno if any of this matters, but I liked her—a lot. She was _always _nice. Even to my dad, sometimes. She knew he was an ass, she told my mom to leave him a hundred times, and yet she never yelled at him. Come to think of it, I can't remember her ever yelling at me—or anyone else for that matter. I, uh…thanks, Jimmy. You were right. I do feel a little bit better." I smiled once more, and kissed him. "Can we go screw our brains out now," he asked with a tiny giggle.

"I thought you'd never ask," I teased. He stood up slowly, took my hand, and we headed back to the bedroom, smiling and happy, despite all the bad things he'd been thinking and talking about. "It's gonna be okay, Greg," I promised. "Not perfect…and not everything will work out. This is not a fairy tale, but you'll be okay—we both will."

"Alright," he said, and I think he meant it, really meant it. _Yeah, _I thought, a_ll right._


End file.
